


And Molasses

by Lemon_Lemmings



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Baking, Bullying mentioned, Cookies, Gen, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Sickfic, Somewhat, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 15:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13977732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_Lemmings/pseuds/Lemon_Lemmings
Summary: “That’s not enough.” Hunk motions to the cookie mountains. “I need to make more.”“How many more? I can bake.”Hunk gives her a skeptical look.Pidge crosses her arms. “My cookies might not turn out as perfect as yours, boo hoo. At least they won’t be contaminated with the plague.”





	And Molasses

“Whoa, you look like crap,” Pidge remarks, wrinkling her nose as she shuffles into the kitchen.

“Thanks, good morning to you too!” Hunk gushes sarcastically. He pauses to clear his throat and turns away from her, sliding a tray into the oven.

“Hey crab-ass, that was a concerned observation, not an insult.” Pidge frowns.

“You’d look just as crappy and be just as crabby if you didn’t get any sleep,” Hunk retorts crisply, closing the oven.

Did the universe flip on its head or something? Hunk always made it a point to go to bed on time. He was usually the one who lectured about pulling all-nighters on her laptop.

“Why the heck did you stay up all night when that big party thing is today?”

Allura’s hosting a ton of civilians from various corners of the coalition as well as Galra, hoping to secure some more support and comfortability regarding Lotor’s reign. It was originally supposed to be on his ship, actually, considering the near-fatal consequences their past security breach on Arus. But most of the ambassadors working with Allura weren’t willing to get anywhere near a Galra warship, let alone bring their civilians aboard one.

Understandable, Pidge thinks, all things considering. She’s already programed a few extra droids to keep an eye on things. They’ll set off alarms the moment anyone who doesn’t have clearance ventures too far from the party. Allura said she’d have the mice keep a lookout too, so Pidge feels confident they’ll be okay.

 _“Because_ that big party thing is today.” Hunk resumes his place at the little island counter where a bowl and spoon await. He points behind her with the spoon. “Hundreds of guests means hundreds of cookies.”

Pidge turns around and gasps. “Holy quiznak!”

There floats this mammoth mountain range of cookies. They’re set up on a few low hover-tables, stacked high above her head. “You even organized them by color!”

“By flavor,” Hunk corrects, briefly glancing up from stirring whatever’s in the bowl.

“Huh…” Pidge walks over to a cookie mountain, her eye on a pink one.

“That’s not happening,” Hunk warns so fast his voice cracks.

“Just one!”

“Nuh-uh. I worked too hard on that display.” He pauses to clear his throat again. “You can have one of the ones on the counter.”

“Are those the rejects?”

“Yes.”

“Gee, thanks.” Pidge rolls her eyes and shuffles around the counter anyway.

There’s another pink one with some kind of blue glaze on it that she takes and nibbles at. It tastes buttery and kind of fruity too, but the glaze is a bit too gluey. Maybe that’s why it ended up in the reject pile. It still isn’t bad by any means. She finishes it off and picks another one, purple with these crunchy chips she likes. The next one she eats is nice and doughy with candy sprinkles.

“These are pretty good for rejects,” she says brightly.

Hunk doesn’t reply, either too caught up in what he’s doing or unable to accept any praise for the cookies he’s determined are failures. He can be super, ridiculously serious about perfection in the kitchen.

But if this is what failure tastes like, then it’s pretty sweet, so Pidge chooses another cookie and chews with contentment. This is her favorite one so far. It has a smooth crème filling that melts in her mouth.

_Clang!_

Pidge abruptly jumps at the noise and almost chokes on it. Alerted, she whirls around. The tray Hunk evidently dropped is on the floor, its batch of cookies scattered around it. He wobbles to the side, blindly groping for the counter. Then he folds to the floor, cookies crunching beneath him.

Gasping, Pidge hurries over. “Hunk!”

“Dang it,” he mutters, brows pinching together. “That batch was perfect and now I’m covered in crumbs.”

“Forget the cookies, what just happened?” Pidge helps him sit up, lips pursed in worry.

“Think I got overheated,” Hunk mumbles, running a hand through his hair. Beads of sweat fall from the strands. “The oven’s on high.”

“I’m here with the oven too and I didn’t just faint.”

“I scare you?” he asks, in between exhausted and apologetic.

“Uh, yeah, no kidding.” Pidge rubs her hand up and down his back, no bite behind the words. “Are you feeling okay?”

Hunk shrugs, making a quiet, frustrated noise as he scowls at the broken bits of cookies scattered about. He looks crappy for sure and maybe she should’ve paid more attention or bugged him about it more than she did. His complexion is dull and diluted and he’s got bags under his too shiny eyes, dark like bruises.

Pidge feels his cheek with the back of her hand and grimaces. “You know you’ve got a fever?”

“Nah…I think it’s just the oven.”

“Hunk, I’m touching you right now. You’re on fire.” She cups his face in her palms and gently turns him to face her. “Come on.”

“I don’t want to be sick,” he sighs.

“i don’t think anybody ever does. How bad do you feel?”

“Headache,” he admits. “My throat’s kinda scratchy but I can deal.”

Pidge lets go of his face. “You should go to bed.”

“That’s not enough.” Hunk motions to the cookie mountains. “I need to make more.”

“How many more? I can bake.”

Hunk gives her a skeptical look.

Pidge crosses her arms. “My cookies might not turn out as perfect as yours, boo hoo. At least they won’t be contaminated with the plague.”

“I don’t have the plague.”

“It’s still not sanitary for you to be touching all the food when you’re sick.”

“Hn. I can’t argue with that.” Hunk stretches a hand up and grabs the counter, griping tight for support as he pulls himself to a stand.

Pidge notes a subtle tremor in his movements and finds herself uneasy. “How long have you been feeling bad?”

Hunk just shrugs, sidetracked as he massages his temples.

“Guess I’ll get Rex to take care of the floor,” she says, talking to herself as much as Hunk. Rex is her custom cleanup bot that could put any Roomba to shame, the result of feeling too lazy to scrub the pods by hand when her turn came around. “I’ll be back in like two minutes and you can have whatever recipe ready for me. You do have some basic instructions for me, right?”

Pidge baked now and then on Earth. She started so she’d have backup dessert at home when the bullies began stealing her dessert at school, in addition to all the name calling. She hardly ever bakes from scratch though. She mainly uses pre-made box mixes that are done in under thirty minutes. Even if baking isn’t her favorite hobby, she can see how Hunk finds it soothing with the repetitive motions and the effort you put in inevitably rewarded by comfort food.

“Uh, Hunk?” she prompts, her uneasiness growing at the lack of response.

“Yeah, I hear you,” he says, this catch in his throat that she doesn’t like at all. “Take your time.”

That’s a pretty weird thing for him to say with today being so jam packed. True, they’ve got enough time to spare that she shouldn’t have to rush through baking, but they don’t exactly have all day either. It seems like he’s starting to space out and suddenly Pidge is less comfortable leaving him alone in the kitchen.

“Maybe Coran should check you out,” she says, giving him a scrutinizing seep with her eyes.

“Pidge, please stop talking,” he mutters.

“Well,” she huffs irritably, “excuse me for—“

“I know, alright?” Hunk cuts her off, but he sounds closer to begging than griping. “I just have a headache.”

Pidge’s annoyance evaporates.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, pointedly softer.

* * *

 

It doesn’t even take five minutes for her annoyance to return once they actually get to work. At first, she thinks it’s going to be fine. Hunk obediently stops touching things and leans against the back wall for support, far enough away to keep potential contagion to himself. She wouldn’t mind some direction for what to add, or some tips about kneading the dough to the right consistency.

Heck, she even expected Hunk to be a critical all things considering, but she did not expect him to be a freaking nightmare.

“Don’t you think you’re too sick to bother me about exact measurements and perfectly smooth glaze?”

“Nope. If it’s not perfect, it’s going out the airlock.”

“Because that’s not extreme at all.”

“Hey, Allura wants us to make our best impressions her guests, they deserve our best work. They’re already nervous about this thing with Lotor and mingling with Galra. Tasty snacks are a surefire way to bring everybody together and boost the mood.”

“Mm, alright. I guess I can see where you’re coming from, at least.” Pidge softens up a bit.

“And again, remember to turn your bowl while you’re stirring that.”

Instantly back to being annoyed, Pidge grumbles under her breath.

“You’re checking for bubbles, right? You know if there’s bubbles it’s not—“

 _“Not ready,_ yes, I know!” Pidge stirs extra vigorously just to work her aggression out.

“And the purple glaze dries fast, so you’ve got to be quick when you drizzle it on. Quick, not sloppy. You can be fast without making a mess.”

“Duly noted.” Pidge grits her teeth.

"But the white glaze is more like a paste. Be conservative with it and don't let it glob up."

"Gotcha." She rolls her eyes.

If he’s not nitpicking about the glaze, then it’s the ingredients. She can’t mix the crunchy chips with the orange dough, the flavors clash. She has to be especially scarce with the u-shaped nuts because they’re so salty, she needs to double-check this, and that, and the next thing, yada yada yada.

As they go on, it does sound like Hunk’s voice is fading, each demand or quibble a bit quieter and rougher than the last. Pidge can’t help feeling a little sympathy with every raspy syllable that peters out of him, but she still finds herself hoping he’ll lose his voice completely.

It’s a mean thought that she feels guilty for thinking. She should make it a point to let the nagging slide precisely _because_ he sounds so bad. But sick or not, he’s driving her nuts!

It’s like he thinks she’s never held a spoon before! Harping on her for every single detail isn’t going to make the cookies taste any better, damn it!

But she bears with him through batch after batch and eventually the worst is over. She’s baked another abundance of cookies, now all she has to do is stack them.

This hard part is done. 

Or so she thinks.

“You’re gonna want to have the biggest ones on the bottom,” Hunk starts.

Pidge’s brows jump under her bangs. “Are you delirious? They’re all the same size!”

Hunk sighs. “I’m not delirious. I know it’s subtle, but no two come out the same. Look for the bigger ones.”

“When there’s barely going to be a millimeter of difference?” Pidge gawks incredulously. 

“I clearly know what I’m talking about.” Hunk tiredly gestures to the other cookie mountains.

Quiznak. Here they go again.

PIdge pushes her glasses up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Will you just go to bed already? I can handle piling cookies on top of each other, Hunk.”

“There’s a method to it,” Hunk insists. “It’s not like kids stacking blocks. You have to have a sturdy foundation.”

Pidge groans and and runs her hands through her hair.

“Don't do that around the food, you might shed.”

“Alright, alright.” Pidge begins placing cookies on the hover table, one by one.

“Make sure they’re not too close to the edge.”

“They’re not.”

“The ones with nuts and chips are trickier since they’re so bumpy. You’ve got to be especially strategic with those ones.”

“Oookay.” She battles the urge to bang her head against the wall.

“Pidge—“

“Hunk!” She interrupts hotly, throwing her hands in the air. “I can’t concentrate on strategically placing cookies when you’re talking every two seconds!”

For a blessedly silent moment, she thinks he’s finally backed off. Then a feeble whining noise raises the hairs along her arms. She immediately looks back, just about jumping out of her skin.

“Oh!” Pidge scrambles over, blindly feeling along the counter for a towel as she gapes, morbidly fixated by the blood rushing from Hunk’s nostrils.

It’s as profuse a nosebleed as she’s ever seen, creating currents over his lips and flowing down his chin. His hand hovers uncertainly below, trembling as he tries to catch the stray droplets.

“Lean forward,” Pidge says, finding a towel. “It’ll help, trust me.”

Hunk leans forward but it must make him dizzy because then he’s groping for the counter again. He fumbles and Pidge takes his hand, guiding it there. Into his free hand she ushers the towel, trying to mask her alarm.

“Pinch your nose, that helps too.”

“I need to sit down,” he mumbles, words weak as they wobble off his bloody lips.

And Pidge tries to help as his knees hit the floor for the second time that day, hand fluttering over his back. Hunk makes another whining noise as he pinches his nose, towel reddening almost instantly.

“I know blood grosses you out but you’re okay,” Pidge consoles, forcing a positive tone as she rubs his shoulder. “I get nosebleeds from my allergy medication sometimes. They’re not fun but they always go away.”

True be told, hers are never this bad. Hopefully that’s just because she has a smaller nose with presumably less blood in it. It could just be that, right?

She wants to think that but she can’t shake the tightening band of trepidation around her chest.

“Let’s see if the towel did its job, huh?” Pidge says, none too reassured by how red the thing is. She slides her hand over his and guides it back, stomach rolling turbulently as the sodden towel brushes her skin. The moment it’s taken away, blood floods over her fingers.

Hunk whimpers and Pidge can’t bite back a startled cry.

“That’s bad! H-Help!” she shouts, her thoughts scattered in alarm. “Help! Please!”

Hunk presses his face in her shoulder, shuddering violently. Her shirt is white and he’s bleeding all over it and it doesn’t matter at all. She can feel the heat radiating off him through her clothes and if he really is infected with some space plague, she deserves to catch it too.

She should’ve dragged him to the med bay the moment she realized he had a fever, or before that when he swooned, or even before that, when she took her first step into the kitchen and saw how crappy he looked.

“Help!”

Her heart leaps when she hears quickening footsteps in the distance. Her premature relief is squashed when it’s Lotor who pokes his head in, eyes widening at the spectacle. He approaches and Pidge tenses, protectively draping herself around Hunk as much as she can.

She hasn’t decided exactly how she feels about Lotor yet. She needs more time to sort through conflicting emotions and concerns before she can come to a final conclusion. She’s still confused about it, somewhat inclined to trust, but also wary of aspects that doesn’t seem to add up.

Pidge hasn’t pinned down what he’s all about yet but she does know for certain that right here, right now, she is not comfortable with him getting any closer to Hunk.

“Don’t.” She means it to be phrased as a warning, but it comes out like a plea. “Don’t touch him, don’t even come over here. Just go get someone, preferably Coran, but anyone who isn’t you.”

“I’m already here and I can—“

“Hurry up!” she snaps, nerves fraying.

“Very well.” Lotor narrows his eyes and takes a hasty leave.

Hunk says something that gets muffled into her chest.

Pidge shifts back and lets him raise his head. His nosebleed is luckily slower than it was before. Twin rivers of blood have weakened to thinner streams. It’d be better if the bleeding stopped altogether, but this is slightly less scary.

“What’d you say?”

“Thanks for making him leave,” he mumbles. “I don’t like that guy.”

“No?” Pidge tilts her head, wistful simper on her lips.

“Lance doesn’t so I’m automatically not allowed to.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“I don’t think I like him either,” Pidge mutters dubiously, climbing to her feet.

“You leaving?” Hunk’s voice wavers.

“No way, I’m just getting another towel.” She trots over to the counter and swipes a clean one from the rack, running it under cold water.

She wrings it out so it’s not dripping and uses it to mop some of the mess from Hunk’s face. He doesn’t flinch or fuss. But when the towel comes away with an especially wide blotch, he whines, this pitiful, distressed noise that tugs at Pidge’s heart. She folds the towel over to an unstained side and wipes away some more blood, trying to keep it out of his sightline.

“You hear something?”

Pidge gives pause, listening. “Is someone running?”

The next thing she knows, Lance is flying over the threshold, a frazzled streak of blue and beige. He slams on the breaks before he can crash into the cookie mountains and careens around the counter.

“Coran’s right behind me,” he pants hurriedly. “Holy crow, Pidge! You look like you just walked out of a horror movie! What happened?”

Pidge looks down at her shirt, splattered with copious nasal blood, and winces.

“He’s pretty sick…”

“Sick? He’s bleeding!”

“Am I bleeding because I’m sick?” Hunk frets, an anxious flutter evident despite his hoarseness.

“Dude!” Lance gasps, slack-jawed. “You sound horrible!”

“Yelling’s not helping,” Hunk groans, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oops. Sorry.”

“Still have a headache?” Pidge guesses quietly.

“It’s worse,” he croaks.

“What else?” Coran asks, winding into the room.

“Nosebleed of the century,” Hunk mutters, stealing a look at the bloody towel in Pidge’s hand and quivering in disgust.

“He’s had a fever for awhile,” adds Pidge.

“How long is awhile?” Lance frowns.

“Since I got here at least, and that was a couple hours ago.”

“Hours!” Lance exclaims.

Hunk flinches. “Again with the yelling…”

“Hey, I told him to go to bed,” Pidge defends.

“Good thing he didn’t,” Coran remarks. “We wouldn’t want him to choke on the blood.”

At that Hunk makes a painful, throaty noise of alarm.

“Am I gonna die!?”

“You’re going to destroy what’s left of your voice yelling like that, but you're not going to die,” Coran lectures with an undercurrent of amusement. “It’s not nearly that severe. You were assisting the medics on Lerudian, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And did you go through decontamination when you returned to the castle?”

“…”

Coran sighs. “That’s what I thought. It seems you’ve contracted a mild case of Lerudian flu.”

“Mild?” Pidge splutters in disbelief. Hunk’s nosebleed is still going strong and the towel is soaked to the point of being useless, just smearing and smudging the blood around when she tries to clean it away. She gives up.

“The virus dries out the nasal passages,” Coran explains. “Hemorrhage is common and it can be exacerbated by dehydration. Are you dehydrated?”

“I don’t know,” Hunk mumbles but Pidge is sure he is.

“That’s kinda weird that alien germs dry you out,” Lance says thoughtfully. “Earth germs usually stuff you up.”

“I’d rather be stuffed up than bleeding.”

“Come on.” Coran crouches beside Hunk and pats his back. “Let’s get you scanned and settled before our guests arrive.”

He helps Hunk to his feet and Pidge hovers uncertainly, feeling like she should do something but unsure of what. Coran keeps a steady grip on Hunk and lets him lean for support as he leads him out of the kitchen. Pidge goes to follow, but Lance blocks her, arms crossed.

She narrows her eyes. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s yours?” Lance shoots back. “Hunk’s been sick for hours and you didn’t help him?”

“All I’ve been doing for hours is helping him!” Pidge gasps, gesturing widely at the array of cookies and glaze-caked utensils. “And he was feeling well enough to bitch at me the whole time!”

“Wait.” Lance pauses, stern expression melting off his face. “You were baking with him?”

“Yes!”

“With Hunk?”

“No, with Zarkon,” Pidge huffs, rolling her eyes. “Yes, with Hunk!”

“And you survived?”

Pidge blinks, balking.

Lance laughs and slaps himself in the forehead. “Oh man, even I don’t do that! Every little sprinkle’s got to be in the perfect spot or he goes off like some drill sergeant.”

“You’re telling me,” PIdge groans, slumping. “But it’s not like I could let him finish alone.”

“I get it, you’re off the hook.” Lance grins as he reaches out to ruffle her hair. “He really digs his heels in when it comes to kitchen projects.”

“I swear I’m gonna kill him,” she grouses, shaking her head.

“It looks like you already did,” Lance remarks, wrinkling his nose.

Pidge looks at her bloody hands and bloody shirt, suddenly weary. “Ugh, I need to change. And probably shower.”

“Does he want the rest of those cookies stacked?”

“Yes. Very particularly.”

“Okay, tell you what.” Lance claps his hands together. “I’ll get it started on it while you get cleaned up, and then we can finish it together. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” Pidge gives a small smile. “Thanks, Lance.”

* * *

“What’re you doing?”

“Go back to bed, Hunk.” Pidge doesn’t look up from her laptop.

“But you should be at the party,” he protests drowsily.

“You should be sleeping.”

“What if I choke?”

“You won’t, your nosebleed stopped.” Pidge finally looks up from her laptop screen and gestures to the plentiful pile of pillows under his back. “Coran’s got you all propped up so even if it started bleeding again, you’d be okay.”

“I don’t know,” Hunk mumbles skeptically.

“I do,” she tells him, soft but sure. “And— hey, quit picking at your IV.”

“But it’s bugging me,” he pouts.

“Then next time remember to drink water. Or better yet, remember to go through decontamination.”

“Okay, but like, how was I supposed to know Lerudian diseases were communicable with humans? They have fur and six eyes.”

“It probably wouldn’t have crossed my mind either, but I guess that’s why decontaminating is precautionary.”

“So how long you stay at the party?”

“Long enough to watch Allura’s speech. Long enough to try not to barf in my mouth when Lance started flirting.” Pidge shrugs.

“The cookies impress?”

“Oh, yeah. They went over great. Almost perfect, if you ask me.”

“Excuse me?” Hunk arches a brow. “Almost?”

Pidge tucks a grin into her collar and nods, turning her laptop so he can see what she’s been working on. Hunk raises his head and studies the screen, his eyes lighting up.

“Ooh! You’re right!”

“I know,” Pidge smirks, basking in the acknowledgement of her genius. “Sure, obviously taste is the most important thing, but aesthetic isn’t irrelevant. We need cookie cutters. Especially cookie cutters that get our message across.”

“You designed it yourself? The Voltron cookie cutter?”

“Yep. We can design as many as we want and then 3D print the best ones.” Pidge adjusts her glasses and turns her laptop back, refocusing on her project. “Think of it as a get well present but just to be clear, I’m never baking cookies— or anything —with you ever again.”

“…Hunk?”

She looks up again when she doesn’t get a response to see he’s conked out again, head cocked over the fluffy cloud of one of his many pillows. Without his headband his bangs catch in his lashes.

Well heck, that figures. Hunk won’t go back to bed when she tells him to, but when she finally gives in and decides to have a conversation, he’s passed out in the blink of an eye.

“Rude much?” she puffs fondly under her breath.

Maybe her next cookie cutter should be the Yellow Lion.

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon that Pidge names robots and the like basic dog names like Fido, Lassie, etc. Like, she canonically named one Rover, so...


End file.
